by Kate Merrill
This time the Lord had given him a rough row to hoe, and Floyd was like a sorry old hound holed up to lick his wounds. This hunting trailer had a well and septic, but only a trickle of rusty water flowed from the tap, and the toilet wouldn’t flush. The place stank like a shit hole, but Floyd reflected on how when Jesus came upon the blind beggar sitting by the roadside, Jesus gave him sight. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but the Lord had given Floyd the sight to find this place again, like he did once before, and for that blessing, he was grateful.
The trailer belonged to his good buddy, a former cellmate who had given Floyd a key last time he needed to lay low. The camp was set way back from any road, on the Yadkin River, and it had been abandoned so long even his buddy likely couldn’t find it. The rutted path leading back to the camp hadn’t been traveled in years, and weeds covered the trailer’s rusty walls like camouflage.
Far as Floyd knew, he had no neighbors, but it never hurt to be extra careful. No telling when a strayed fisherman might wade down the river, or a low-flying pleasure plane might spot his lights. So he had planned in advance and stocked the cupboards long before the fucked-up ransom drop.
Floyd had also taken precautions with his vehicles. He chuckled at his own cunning. In the past week, he’d bought, hid, or discarded so many clunkers he’d near lost track, and his license tag collection had come in real handy. He always paid cash for the cars, and the folks he bought from weren’t likely to blab, nor were they particular about ownership titles.
Floyd had covered all the bases, so he blamed that asshole, Bobby Porter, the FBI man, and Floyd’s screw-up nephew that everything went wrong. The black man came out of nowhere, but Floyd knew he was a Fed the minute he entered the gun shop. Nothing left but to kill him. If Darryl hadn’t panicked and drawn his gun, then Porter wouldn’t have fetched his shotgun, and Floyd would be a rich man today. They were all a bunch of stupid, screwed, fuck-ups.
He took another long swallow of whiskey, then hurled the can of beans against the wall above the sink. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the red bag of cash laying there in a pool of blood. If all those screaming people hadn’t got in his way, Floyd could have grabbed the bag and run---to hell with Darryl.
His nephew got what he deserved, and Floyd hoped he was suffering for his mistake. He pictured Darryl all strung up to machines to pump his blood and do his breathing for him. Too bad they couldn’t hook Darryl up to a machine to do his thinking for him. All brawn, no brain, his nephew was good for nothing but fetch n’ carry. Floyd pictured a gang of cops guarding Darryl’s hospital door. Under those circumstances, Floyd figured it would be best all around if the kid never woke up.
On the other hand, Darryl couldn’t incriminate Floyd, because Floyd had never shared his plans with Darryl. Even if the poor slob regained consciousness, Darryl didn’t know about the secret hideaway or the spare car Floyd had hidden down the road for his getaway.
Floyd was sure the Feds had identified him by now. They had left fingerprints all over that rental car. And even though the blood Floyd had spilled was only nigger blood, those guys would be hunting him down with an eye to his slaughter. Floyd wasn’t scared. He’d come this far without a scratch, and now he stood to get twice as rich as before.
When he called Bobby Porter’s Mexican whore, she’d been scared shitless, but she’d come up with all the right answers. She had raised the cash before, she could do it again. He congratulated himself with another deep drink and recalled the first time he’d seen Juanita.
Several years back, when he first moved to North Carolina, Juanita was new in town, too. She hung out with the illegals who came up from the Rio Grande and worked so cheap that decent white folk were losing their jobs. Floyd asked around back then and learned her name. He figured her for an easy lay and followed her to work. But then Porter came on the scene. After that, Juanita didn’t come around to the bars no more, but Floyd never forgot her fine set of boobs.
Last night on the phone, he told her he didn’t care how she got the money. He told her to go set her fat ass on a rich man’s face, if that’s what it took, or he’d cut her little boy’s prick off. By the time Floyd was done with her, she was crying so bad it gave him a hard-on.
He groaned and staggered to his feet. He opened the trailer door and smelled the dead fish odor rising off the river. He unzipped his fly and peed into the rain. One thing he knew for sure--- never trust a woman. He lifted his face to the downpour, and the warm water coursed down his neck and bare chest. He stepped back into the trailer, shut the door, and felt his way to the sagging cot that would serve as his bed these next few days. When he fell on his belly, his thoughts turned to Leona. He fantasized about the many ways he’d enjoy her before he killed her.
The stupid bitch had betrayed him. She meant to all along. She had seemed so tired and confused as they moved from one motel to the next. She wasn’t sleeping nor eating proper, so Floyd figured she was whupped. He was wrong.
When he and Darryl left to meet Porter, Floyd had wanted to lock Leona and the boy in the room, but Darryl said no. He kept saying, “What if there’s a fire, or what if a storm comes up?” So like a fool, Floyd finally gave in to that nonsense and made Leona promise to stay put.
Then after the fuck-up, when Floyd returned empty-handed to the motel, Leona and the boy were long gone. So was the old blue station wagon. Floyd was so mad he near strangled the desk clerk who, as always, never saw nothing. Thing was, Floyd never figured Leona cared about the money, but he figured she cared about Darryl. Why didn’t the bitch wait for her husband?
Never trust a woman. Floyd listened to the steady throbbing of rain on the roof, then reached down and took hold of himself. As his excitement grew, he recalled the last time he raped Leona, how he tied her to the bed and took her three times before Darryl came home.
The memory took him where he needed to go as his hand finished its work: for a harlot is a deep pit, a narrow well, she lies in wait like a robber. He prayed, and once his physical needs were met, he was at peace.
After all, by taking the boy, Leona did him a favor. The boy was a sniveling, puking nuisance. When all was said and done, Floyd knew damn well where to find her and the boy. When Leona ran, she never ran but one direction…
Home.
THIRTY-THREE
Some kind of miracle…
They found her sitting alone in the dark, drinking beer at a small table overlooking the back acres, where rain gusted across the valley and ruffled the surface of the gray lake.
“Hey, Juanita,” Matthew called out cheerfully. “We brought dinner!”
Diana let Matthew take charge. They had stopped at Lancaster’s Barbequeon the way to Porter Farm and purchased enough meat, slaw, and hushpuppies to feed a volunteer fire department. Juanita seemed disconnected as Matthew cleared away her ashtray, wiped off the table, and created three place settings with paper napkins and plastic forks. He heaped their plates with food, rummaged through the refrigerator, where he found cold beers for Juanita and her, and then poured sweet tea for himself.
All the while, Juanita’s eyes never left Diana’s face. Her expression conveyed shock, misery, but above all, suspicion.
Matthew guided Diana into her seat, then noisily pulled up his own chair. “Well, ladies, do we say grace, or dig right in?”
“You told him, didn’t you?” Juanita said.
“Yes, because you said I could confide in Matthew. Now we must sit down and talk this out, Jua
nita.”
“Eat first, talk later,” Matthew commanded. “I don’t want to hear one word until your plates are clean.”
Juanita continued to frown, but one heartbeat later she began quivering and a chuckle bubbled up from her throat. “Damn you, Trout!” She tossed a packet of hot sauce at him. “You’re a pain in the butt!”
“Yeah, but I feed you, right?”
Once again Matthew had worked his magic. The tension eased from the back of Diana’s neck, and suddenly she was ravenous. His good humor was contagious. Even Juanita was infected as she gobbled hushpuppies like a starved animal, while Diana marveled at how Matthew made her feel calm and protected. In his own quiet way, he had that effect on everyone. If they had been alone, Diana would have reached out and touched him. She would have smoothed away the worry lines in his forehead and buried herself in the strength of his arms.
Yet on the drive to Juanita’s, they had argued. Diana told Matthew she was impressed by Max Grim. She wanted to tell the FBI everything about the new ransom demand immediately, but Matthew didn’t trust the man. In fact, Matthew seemed inclined to take matters into his own hands. Maybe it was a male thing---two assertive egos clashing? Or maybe Matthew sincerely believed Grim had lost interest in Juan?
Diana pleaded that the FBI was better equipped to handle this dangerous situation, and in the end, they had compromised. Since Juanita’s ground line had been tapped, and because she had promised not to respond to her cell phone, Diana and Matthew figured the authorities would know if Floyd Clontz tried to contact Juanita this evening. They were granting Juanita a reprieve of sorts, because Matthew and she had agreed to tell the whole story to the authorities in the morning.
“Juanita, I think you should tell Bobby about this latest demand,” Matthew advised once they finished eating. “He has a right to know. Even though Juan’s not his flesh and blood, he loves him like a son.”
Stained napkins lay in a crumpled heap on the table. The food was all gone, and the last beer had been drained. Diana braced herself as Juanita’s eyes sparked at Matthew. But instead of the anticipated explosion, Juanita stood up, walked to the counter, and started brewing coffee.
“Matthew’s right,” Diana said. “It’s true Bobby is hurt and vulnerable now, but he’ll never forgive you if you don’t share this with him.”
When Juanita turned to face them, coffee sloshed from the cups in her trembling hands and tears cascaded down her face. “You don’t understand. Bobby’s a strong man, but he’s helpless in this situation. Don’t you see? It’s the money. Bobby’s a fighter, but he can’t fight this.”
Diana hastened to help with the coffee. She placed the cups on the sofa table, then gently eased Juanita onto the couch. Following her lead, Matthew moved to the armchair.
It was always about money, Diana reflected bitterly. On their ride over, the subject of money had turned their argument into a hopelessly emotional standoff. Diana had confessed that although she desperately wanted to ask Vivian for more cash, she couldn’t do so without putting her mother’s financial security at risk. Matthew admitted that after his first contribution to the ransom, his own resources were tapped out. They both felt angry and useless at their financial impotence.
“Pleasedon’t tell Bobby,” Juanita pleaded.
For once, even Matthew seemed at a loss. Impulsively, Diana sat beside Juanita and wrapped her arms around the woman. The gesture caused Juanita to break down completely. She sobbed and buried her face in Diana’s shoulder. She stroked Juanita’s long black hair, cradled her like a baby, and murmured reassurances into her damp ear. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning crackled above the dark lake.
Matthew sat silently in the shadows, sipping coffee and watching Juanita cry. Gradually the sobbing subsided and Juanita relaxed in Diana’s arms. But then, sudden as a scream, the phone on the table rang. They all froze. Juanita stiffened and clung as the phone howled from its cradle.
“It’s him!” Juanita shrieked. “The kidnapper!”
Terror jangled through Diana’s veins like an electric shock. “But you have to answer it. What if it’s Bobby?”
“It’s not Bobby.” Juanita struggled to flee, but Diana held her firmly.
Finally Matthew picked up the receiver. He answered in a tense, husky voice, then listened intently, his eyebrows knit with concentration. Finally, he held the phone out to Juanita. “It’s a woman. She wants to talk to you.”
Confused, Juanita looked from one to the other, then reluctantly accepted the receiver. Her eyes darted back and forth as she listened. Next she abruptly rose and carried the remote to the privacy of her bedroom.
“What woman?” Diana demanded once Juanita was out of earshot. “Was it the country girl from the Open House?” Many times she had prayed that the girl she saw stealing food really was involved with the kidnappers, for in her heart, Diana believed that girl could never hurt a child.
Matthew shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a girl. It sounded more like an old woman.”
When Juanita returned, her face was blank with shock.
“Well?” Diana could hardly contain herself as Juanita sank to the couch.
Juanita blinked “That was Mrs. McCord, Juan’s paternal grandmother…”
Diana remembered the name from that long ago afternoon when they sat in this very room with Bo Miller. That day Juan’s grandparents had called and rejected Juanita’s plea for help. “What did shewant?”
Again Juanita blinked. “The McCords saw the story on the national news. When the commentator described the shootout, suddenly it all got real for them.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Neither do I, Diana. When I talked to her before, Juan’s grandmother called me a whore, but today she was respectful to both me and my dead sister, Maria. She said that after all, Maria was Juan’s mother, and she was his grandma…”
“Yes, but what did she want?” Diana pressed.
Juanita’s eyes stretched with disbelief. “She wants to help. She actually volunteered before I asked. The McCords are wiring money, twenty-five thousand, to be used towards Juan’s ransom.”
A slow smile spread across Matthew’s face. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Someone up there’s looking out for you, Juanita. It takes a miracle to turn folks around that way. The McCord’s contribution sweetens the bad news, don’t you agree? Let’s call Bobby.”
Juanita focused on Matthew. “We still need twenty-five thousand more.”
“Yeah, but now we’re three fourths of the way to the finish line. I’ll wager Bobby can live with those odds.”
As Juanita weighed Matthew’s suggestion, Diana’s heart skipped with the turn in events. In her experience, wolves never became lambs, and reconciliation, such as the McCord’s sudden acceptance of Juan, was a miracle she could hardly believe. As she questioned her lack of faith, the phone rang again. Again the trio startled at the sound, but this time Juanita answered without hesitation.
Matthew and Diana had no trouble hearing the voice bellowing across the miles:
“Damn it, Ms. Cruz,” Agent Grim snarled. “I just played back the tape of your call from California. What’s all this shit about a new ransom?”
THIRTY-FOUR
A snooping expedition…
>
On Monday morning Diana received five frantic phone calls, one right after another, and the first was from her mother. Viv always let the phone ring long enough to raise the dead, and this time she dragged Diana dripping from the shower. Like everyone else in America, Mama had seen the evening news and wondered whether the kidnappers had gotten away with her money. If not, would she get her contribution back?
“The FBI is holding your money in a safe place, Mama, but frankly, we’re more concerned with getting Juan back,”Diana told her.
“Where were you yesterday, Diana? I rang a hundred times, but you never answered.”
Diana explained how she’d split her day between the hospital and Juanita’s house, but her excuse cut no ice with Mama.
“You should mind your own business, Diana.”
Next Diana covered the same ground with Liz, who was star-struck by all the national attention focused so close to home. After wringing every grisly detail from her, Liz said, “Don’t forget our real estate class tomorrow night. You missed all of last week, Diana, and if you skip this week, you’re screwed.”
Professor Miles Lawton called with virtually the same admonition, and then added another warning to the list, “You’ve been ignoring the Sorvino listing, Diana. That pediatrician who showed an interest is back. He wants to see the house tomorrow afternoon. I expect you to go there, close the deal, and then attend my class afterwards. Is that a problem?”
Diana could not guarantee Miles a sale, but she had agreed to do the showing and to come to class. She did not agree to a date afterwards, and ifthat was a problem, too bad.
Miles’ smarmy advances had put her so on edge, that by the time poor Matthew called, she snapped at him.
“Sorry to bother you,” Matthew gulped. “But I wanted to let you know that Juanita agreed to let me tell Bobby about the new ransom demand. I’m on my way to the hospital. Wanna tag along?”
She had wanted to go more than anything, but she knew she should hit the books or risk flunking her course. So she begged off, and that proved to be a mistake. Had she gone, Diana might have missed caller number five, Juanita herself. Juanita’s tale was wild beyond belief, so it took Diana several tries to sort it out.